The Mystery of M. Felix

"Are you angry with me, Emilia?" he asked, in deep concern. "I could do nothing else. To have kept you in the streets any longer would have been your death. Listen to the rain; it is coming down harder than ever. Here at least you are safe for a few hours. The housekeeper is asleep down-stairs. I will call her up if you wish, but there is another servant who cannot be trusted, I fear."

"If anyone sees me here I shall die of shame," said Emilia, in a low tone. "What will become of me-oh, what will become of me?"

"There is nothing to fear," said Gerald, "and no one need be aware that you are in the house. Do you not know already that I love you with all my heart and soul, and that by consenting to become my wife you will make me the happiest man in the world? The position in which we are placed has been forced upon us. No one shall have the power of placing an evil construction upon it. I will see to that. Your happiness, your honor, are in my keeping. Can you not trust me, Emilia?"

With these and other words as true and tender, he succeeded in calming her. With innate delicacy he did not press her to answer him at such an hour; he would wait till to-morrow; meanwhile he explained his plan to her. She was to occupy the room till the morning, and to lock herself in. He would find a bed elsewhere. Before the servants rose he would return to the house and make a confidant of the housekeeper; the younger servant should be sent upon a distant errand which would keep her from the house till eleven or twelve o'clock. Before that time Emilia would be settled elsewhere. Thus the secret would be preserved and the tongue of scandal silenced.

"And then, Emilia," he said, gazing upon her with ardent affection, "I will ask for my reward."

It was impossible, even if her heart were not already his, that she should fail to be touched by his delicacy and devotion. Tenderly and humbly she thanked him, and intended to say that she would give him his answer on the morrow, but love broke down the barrier of reserve. Involuntarily she held out her hands to him, and he clasped her in his arms and kissed her on her lips, and said that the embrace was a pledge of truth and constancy.

"From you, Emilia, as well as from me!"

"Yes, Gerald," she sighed; "I love you!"

So through the clouds of this dolorous night broke the sun of faithful mutual love. It might have been excused him had he lingered, but for her sake he would not.

"I shall wait in the passage," he said, "to hear you turn the key. No one will disturb you. The housekeeper does not enter this room till I ring in the morning, and I am not always an early bird. Good-night, dear love."

"Good-night, dear Gerald. Are you sure you will be able to get a bed?"

"I can get a dozen. God bless and guard you!"

They kissed each other once more, and then he left her. He waited in the passage to hear the key turned, and with a lover's foolish fondness kissed the door which shut his treasure from his sight. He listened in the passage a moment or two to assure himself that all was still and safe, and then he crept to the street-door, which he opened and closed very softly. He did not seek a bed elsewhere, having come to the determination that it would be a better security from slanderous tongues that it should be supposed he slept in his own house that night. So he made pilgrimages through the streets, ever and anon coming back to the house which sheltered his darling. But once it fatefully happened that he was absent for some thirty or forty minutes, during which period a startling and unexpected incident occurred, the forerunner of as strange a series as ever entered into the history of two loving hearts.

CHAPTER XXVI.

SLANDER'S FOUL TONGUE

The young servant whose loquacious tongue Gerald did not dare to trust was not asleep when he brought Emilia home. She was in bed, it was true, but wide-awake, with a candle alight at her bedside. It was against the rules of the house, but she did not care for that, being deeply engrossed in a thrilling story which set rules at defiance and drove sleep away. She heard the street-door opened and closed, then a murmur of voices, like the distant murmur of the sea, and then the second opening and closing of the street-door. The sounds did not arouse her curiosity, she was so profoundly interested in the fate of the hero and heroine that nothing short of a miracle could have diverted her attention. So she read on with eager eyes and panting bosom, long after Gerald had left the house, and would have continued to read, had she not come to those tantalizing words, "To be continued in our next." Then, with a long-drawn sigh, she turned in her bed-and forgot to blow out the candle.

Emilia had intended not to sleep; she would keep awake all the night, and wait for Gerald in the morning-the morning of the day which was to be for her the herald of a new and happier life. She bore Mrs. Seaton no malice for the indignities she had suffered in her house. There was no room in Emilia's heart for anything but love. With what heartfelt gratitude did she dwell upon the image of Gerald, the noblest man on earth. "I thank God for him," she sighed. "Dear Lord, I thank Thee that Thou hast given me the love of a man like Gerald. My Gerald! Is it true? Can it be real? Ah, yes; I see his dear eyes looking into mine; his dear voice sinks into my heart. Make me grateful for the happiness before me!" It stretched out into the future years, a vista of peace and love and joy. Insensibly she sank upon her knees and prayed, and when she rose the room, the world, and all that it contained, were transfigured. How fair, how sweet was life! She had prayed for Gerald and for herself, had prayed that she might prove worthy of him, and might be endowed with power to brighten his days. Then she sat before the fire, and clasping her knee with her hands, imagined bright pictures in the glowing points of lights. She felt herself sinking to sleep. "I will just close my eyes for a few minutes," she thought. There were warm rugs about the room. Loosening her dress, she threw herself upon the couch, and covering herself with the rugs, fell asleep with joy in her heart and a smile on her lips.

At half-past three in the morning Gerald, after an absence of half an hour or so, was returning to the street in which his house was situated, when he saw an angry glare in the sky, and heard sounds of confusion in the near distance. Almost instantly A fire-engine raced past him. He hastened after it, partly from instinct, but chiefly because it was going in his direction. He had, however, no idea that the danger personally concerned him. Long before he reached his street he was undeceived. Crowds of people encompassed him, and he found it difficult to proceed. Three or four fire-engines were at work; firemen were risking their lives in the enthusiasm of their noble work; policemen were keeping back the excited lookers-on.

"My God!" he cried, as he turned the corner; "it is my house, and Emilia is there!"

Frantically he strove to force his way through the crowd, which would not give way for him at first, but he redoubled his efforts, and running under or leaping over firemen, policemen, and the men and women who were surging round, he tore off his coat, and rushed toward the burning building. He was pulled back, and escaping from those who held him, darted forward again with despairing cries, and was caught in the arms of one who knew him.

"It's all right," cried this man to the firemen. "Mr. Paget has escaped from the house."

He who spoke thought that Gerald, instead of striving to enter the house, had just emerged from it, and his idea was strengthened by the circumstance that Gerald was in his shirt sleeves. One in authority came up to Gerald and said:

"We were getting frightened about you, sir. We got out a young lady and your two servants-"

"A young lady!" gasped Gerald, and inwardly thanked God that Emilia was saved.

"Yes, sir. There's some mystery about her, because your housekeeper said there was no young lady there, but out she came, or was carried, insensible-"

"For God's sake," cried Gerald, "don't tell me she is injured!"

"I think not, sir; but she was in an insensible condition, and some people took her away. Your housekeeper said you were the only one left. Now that we know no lives are lost we can get on with our work. Your house is a wreck, sir; there'll be very little saved out of it."

"Where was the young lady taken to?" asked Gerald, in a state of indescribable agitation, detaining the officer by the sleeve.

"I can't tell you, sir. Excuse me, I must attend to my duty."

Releasing himself from Gerald's grasp, he plunged among his men. Gerald, in his eager anxiety for information of Emilia, asked a dozen persons around him, and obtained a dozen different answers. One said one thing, one said another, and each speaker contradicted the one who had previously spoken. At length he saw on the outskirts of the crowd his housekeeper talking to a lady, and running toward them, he saw that the lady was Mrs. Seaton.

"I am glad you are saved, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton, with freezing politeness. "I was just asking your housekeeper who is the young lady who was carried out of your house barely half dressed, and she insists that no such person was there. But as a hundred people saw her, there is, of course, no disputing a fact so clear. Perhaps you can tell us who she is?"

A number of neighbors gathered around, some who knew both Gerald and Emilia.

"And I said, sir," said the housekeeper, "that their eyes deceived them-"

"Oh, that is very likely," interposed Mrs. Seaton, in her most malicious tone.

"Because," continued the housekeeper, "when we went to bed last night there was nobody but me and that little wretch of a Susan in the house. It was her who set the place on fire, sir, with her novel reading. I hope she'll be put in prison for it."

"But enlighten us, Mr. Paget," said Mrs. Seaton. "Who was the young lady?"

"You are a malicious scandal-monger," cried Gerald, and tore himself away, feeling that he had made for himself and Emilia a more bitter enemy in calling Mrs. Seaton by that name.

He continued his inquiries for Emilia, but could obtain no satisfaction. So many different stories were related to him that he could not tell which was the true one.

The truth was that Emilia, being aroused from sleep by the fire, unlocked the door of the room in which Gerald had left her, and rushed into the passage. The place was strange to her, and she might have been burned to death had not a fireman, who was making his way past her, pulled her into the street. There she was taken up by one and another, striving all the while to escape the prying eyes of those around her, until, overcome by the complicated horror of her position, she swooned away. Two compassionate maiden ladies, sisters, pitying her state, said they would take care of her, and conveyed her to their home.

There they tended her, wondering who she was, for she was a stranger to them, as they were to her. But the terrors through which Emilia had passed had completely prostrated her; the whole of the succeeding day she fell from one faint into another, and the doctor who was called in said it would be best to wait awhile before they questioned her too closely. "She has had a severe mental shock," he said, "and if we are not careful she will have an attack of brain fever." On the evening of the following day she was somewhat better, but her mind was almost a blank as to what had transpired during the past twenty-four hours. The image of Gerald occasionally obtruded itself, and if he had appeared, all would have been well; he was her rock, her shield, and, incapable as she was of coherent thought, his absence weighed upon her as a reproach, and she felt as if God and man had forsaken her. An experience still more cruel was in store for her.

It was night, and she heard a voice in the adjoining room that smote her with terror, the voice of Mrs. Seaton speaking to the ladies who had befriended her. More successful than Gerald, Mrs. Seaton had hunted her down.

"It's a neighborly duty," Mrs. Seaton was saying, "to prevent kind-hearted ladies like yourselves from being imposed upon. I have suffered from her artfulness and wickedness myself, and there was no one to warn me; but if you allow yourself to be taken in by her you will do it with your eyes open."

"She is very gentle-mannered," said one of the two ladies who had befriended her, "and we have a great pity for her. Surely she cannot be so bad as you paint her."

"Facts are facts," said Mrs. Seaton. "You do not even know her name."

"She is too weak to enter into particulars," said the lady, "and we forbore to press her."

"Too weak!" exclaimed Mrs. Seaton, with a derisive laugh. "Fiddlesticks! Excuse me for speaking so, but I hardly have patience with her. Her weakness is put on; you are no match for the creature. Of course if you do not mind being disgraced by association with such a character it is no business of mine; but I ought to know her better than you do."

"You use strong words," said the lady very gravely. "Disgraced! It is too dreadful to think of. What is her name?"

"Emilia Braham. Her father died deeply involved, and would no doubt have swindled his creditors if he had lived; fortunately for them he died suddenly, and they were able to step in and save something from the wreck. I will tell you the whole story if you care to hear it."

"We ought to hear it."

"You shall. After her father's death she came to me and begged me to give her a situation. I took her out of pity. 'I will give you a trial,' I said to her. So she came into my house, and I treated her as a daughter. After a time I had my suspicions, and I do not mind confessing that I set a watch upon her. Then I discovered that she was carrying on a disgraceful intimacy with Mr. Gerald Paget, meeting him regularly and secretly, and keeping out at all hours. When she found that all was known she told her gentleman friend, who came to me and bullied me. In return for his insults I showed him the door, and forbade his ever entering my house again. Then in the evening I sent for the creature and informed her that she must leave my service the following morning-that is, to-day. The language she used to me was dreadful, and she said she would go at once. I told her I would not allow it; badly as she had behaved, I felt that it was not right for her, a single girl, to leave the house at night. However, she insisted, and I had to give way. To protect myself from her malicious slanders, I wrote out a paper which she signed in the presence of another servant, who is ready to testify that the creature knew perfectly well what she was doing. Here it is; you can read it. The other servant witnessed her signature, as you see. Then she left the house, and I soon found out why. She had arranged a clandestine meeting with Mr. Paget that very night-I saw her with my own eyes in his embrace. An hour or two afterward they got into a cab-I can give you the number of the cab and the name of the driver-and drove to Mr. Paget's residence, he being a bachelor, mind you, and living alone with only two female servants in his employ. When he took the creature home he knew quite well that his domestics were abed and asleep, and that there was no risk of his scandalous doings being discovered. But he reckoned without his host. There is a Providence-yes, happily there is a Providence. The fire occurred, and the creature you are harboring rushed out of Mr. Paget's house. Ask her how she got into it. In the middle of the night, too. I ask you, as ladies of common-sense, what construction does it bear? No artfully-invented tale can explain it away. You should be thankful to me for putting you on your guard. Oh, you don't know these creatures!"

"It is a dreadful story," said the lady.

"I hope you will do your duty, as I have done mine. Have I put it too strongly in saying that her presence here is a disgrace?"

"No. We are obliged to you for the unpleasant task you have performed. To-morrow, if she is strong enough, I will request her to take her departure."

"Too lenient by far. In your place I should bundle her out, neck and crop. If you wait till she says she is well enough to go you will wait a precious long time. I shall take care, for my part, that everybody knows the truth."

"Is it not strange," asked the lady, "that Mr. Paget has not called to inquire after her?"

"Not at all; he wishes to keep his name out of the disgraceful affair if he can. It is perfectly clear that he is ashamed of the connection, and wants to be rid of it. So long as it could be kept quiet he didn't mind, but now that it is made public-I can't help repeating, in the most providential manner-it is another pair of shoes. Why, the whole town is talking of it. When the creature shows her face, if she has the hardihood to do it, she will meet with a proper reception. I shouldn't at all wonder if it gets into the papers. Good-night."

Then there was a rustling of skirts, and Emilia knew that her cruel persecutor had taken her leave. She pressed her hands upon her eyes, and the scalding tears ran down her fingers. The horror of the situation was almost more than she could bear. She could not think clearly, but through her aching brain one conviction forced itself. She was disgraced, irretrievably disgraced. Her good name was lost forever. Nothing could restore it, nothing. If an angel from heaven were to declare it, no man or woman would hereafter believe in her purity and innocence. What should she do? Wait till the morning to be turned from the hospitable house of these kind sisters? Go forth into the broad light of day, and be pointed at and publicly shamed? No, she would fly at once, secretly and alone, into the hard, cold world, far, far from the merciless men and women who were ready to defame her. The story which Mrs. Seaton had related to the maiden sisters was false and malignant, but it was built upon a foundation of truth. If she herself had to give evidence in her own defence she would be pronounced guilty. She had been turned from Mrs. Seaton's house late in the night, but she had signed a paper saying that she went of her own free will. She and Gerald had been together in the streets-for how long? She could not remember, but it seemed to be hours. And as if that were not shame enough she had taken refuge in his house and had accepted his hospitality at an hour that would make virtuous women blush. He had pledged his faith to her, he had asked her to be his wife, and now, when she most needed a defender, he was absent. It was true, then, that he had deserted her. Had it been otherwise would he not have sought her long before this, would he not have been present to cast the malignant lie in Mrs. Seaton's face? She had believed so fully in his faith and honor, in his professions of love! But he was false, like all the rest of the world, from which sweetness and life had forever fled.

"Oh, God!" she moaned. "In your Divine mercy, let me die to-night!"

CHAPTER XXVII.

LEONARD RETURNS HOME

A revulsion took place within her which, for a few moments, imbued her with strength. Upon a piece of blank paper she wrote the words, "I am innocent, as Heaven is my judge. God bless you for your kindness to me-Emilia Braham." Dark as it was she managed to form the letters fairly well, and she laid the paper upon the dressing-table. Then despair overtook her again. What had Mrs. Seaton said? "The whole town is talking of it. When the creature shows her face she will meet with a proper reception." But she would not give her revilers the opportunity of publicly hounding her down.

With stealthy steps she crept into the passage. No one was near. Softly she glided to the door. The next moment she was in the street, flying she knew not whither. All that she was conscious of was that the direction she was taking led her away from the town. It was her wish; no person who knew her must ever look upon her face again. First solitude, then death-that was her prayer. She reached the outskirts of the town and plunged into a wood. A part of her desire was accomplished. In her flight no one had recognized or noticed her, and now she was alone with her shame and her despair. For the consciousness of her innocence did not sustain her. Judgment had been pronounced; she was condemned.

Meanwhile the maiden ladies, believing that Emilia was asleep, sat in their room overcome with grief. The revelation which Mrs. Seaton had made to them was a great shock to these simple ladies, who were almost as ignorant of the world's bad ways and of the worst side of human nature as Emilia herself. They did not hear the young girl's footfall in the passage, and Emilia had made no noise in opening the street door, which she left open, fearing that the sound of its closing would betray her. They were silent for many minutes after Emilia's departure, and when they spoke it was in whispers.

"It is a frightful story," said the younger lady. "Can it be true?"

Her sister did not reply immediately; she was thinking of the sweet and innocent face of the hapless girl, and of the impossibility that it could be a mask to depravity. Presently she clasped her sister's hand and said:

"We will not judge, dear, till we hear what she has to say."

"You are always right," said the younger sister, and both experienced a feeling of relief. "Let us go to her; she may be awake."

They stole into the adjoining room, and one said gently, "Are you awake?" Then, presently, "We do not wish to disturb you."

They listened in the darkness and heard no sound of breathing.

"I will get a candle," whispered the elder sister. Returning with it they looked around in alarm. "She is gone! Poor child, poor child! She must have heard what the lady said, and would not wait to be thrust forth. Oh, sister, is it innocence or guilt?"

"Innocence, dear sister, innocence!" replied the younger lady, snatching up the paper upon which Emilia had written. "See sister; 'I am innocent, as Heaven is my judge. God bless you for your kindness to me. – Emilia Braham.' She speaks the truth. She is innocent, she is innocent!"

"Yes," said the elder sister, solemnly. "She is innocent. Thank God!"

Tears ran down their cheeks; their faith in goodness was restored.

"But where has she gone? Oh, sister, so young, so sweet, so helpless!"

They threw shawls over their shoulders, and ran to the street door, observing that Emilia in her flight had left it open. As they stood there, looking anxiously up and down the dark street, two gentlemen approached and accosted them. They were Gerald and his half-brother Leonard.

In explanation of their presence a retrospect of a few hours is necessary.

Leonard, having been absent upon his selfish pleasures for the better part of a year, had returned home upon the morning of the fire. It was a startling reception for the wanderer; regarding Gerald's money as his own his first concern was whether the house and furniture were insured. Ascertaining that they were, and that there would be no pecuniary loss, his next business was to find Gerald. But in his quest he heard something more; "slander, whose edge is sharper than the sword," was already doing its horrible work, and from one and another he heard for the first time of the existence of Emilia and of her having been found in Gerald's house in the middle of the night. "So," thought he, "Gerald is no saint. Well, that sort of thing is better than marrying. I must keep him from that, at all hazards. It seems I have come home just in time." Soon afterward he met with Gerald, who was striving vainly to discover where Emilia was. Despite Gerald's agitation he greeted Leonard with much affection.

"It is a stroke of good fortune," he cried, "that you have arrived to-day. I need a friend. You will help me to find Emilia."

"Emilia!" echoed Leonard, pretending not to have heard her name before.

Then Gerald began to confide in him, but his story threatened to be long, and Leonard drew him away from the curious people who thronged about them. They went to an hotel, Leonard insisting that it would be best, for Gerald wished to continue his inquiries for Emilia in the streets.

"Be guided by me," said Leonard; "I can do what you want in half the time that you would do it yourself. Can you not trust me?"

"Yes, with my life, Len," replied the warm-hearted young fellow, and allowed himself to be persuaded. In a private room in the hotel Leonard heard the whole story, and saw that Gerald was very much in earnest. This did not please him, but he said not a word to Emilia's disadvantage; he was a cunning worker, and he knew which roads were the best to compass any designs he had in view. He no more believed in Emilia's innocence and purity than the worst of her detractors, but he was not going to tell Gerald this. Gerald was trying to throw dust into his eyes, but that was a game that two could play at. With his own cynical disbelief in womanly purity he laughed at the idea of Emilia innocently occupying Gerald's house for a whole night.